HEART DUEL
Heart Book 03
Robin D Owens
One
Druida City, Celta, 403 years after Colonization, Summer, Month of Holly
The audio page shrieked into Lark's bedroom, wrenching her awake. "Lark, teleport to Primary HealingHall now!"
Mayblossom Larkspur Hawthorn Collinson teleported to the HealingHall intake, instinctively channeling her adrenaline rush from being jerked out of sleep into her psi power—Healing Flair. Agony encircled her. Her nose twitched at the smell of blood and other spilled bodily substances.
Lark stumbled into a cleansing tube and croaked her name. A spell whirled around her, whipping her quilted pajamas, sterilizing her. The door opened.
Another Healer grabbed Lark's wrist and hustled her to a body, placing Lark's hands on a trembling, bloody body. "Heal!" she instructed.
Lark focused on her job, her vocation, the reason she'd survived after her husband's death. The present abdominal wound was deep and deadly. Even as she stopped the bleeding, started closing the awful slashes, she knew she felt a broadsword cut. "Blood here!" she ordered.
Her nose quivered again, now noticing the whiff of flesh burnt by blasers. Rage rose with her gorge. She swallowed the reaction and used her fury to pump energy into the dying man.
A duel. A terrible, senseless duel! From the moaning around her and the twelve broken auras she sensed, it had been more than just one-on-one. A melee, a street fight. She mentally listed the four feuds going on. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she looked down at the colors the man wore, dark gray and green— a member of the T'Holly household.
Again she had to swallow. This feud was the worst. The Hollys and the Hawthorns. There'd been hostility between the Hollys and her Family as long as she could remember. She'd hoped the conflict would fade; instead it seemed to intensify.
Both GreatHouses belonged to the colonists' FirstFamilies, powerful in wealth and status and Flair. If the combat continued, it could disrupt the whole city. And as Hawthorn FirstDaughter, she'd be subjected to Family pressure.
When her own caring Healer husband had run to help and died in a Noble skirmish, she'd broken her ties with her Family. Nobles' pride in feuding, nobles' selfishness in wanting their own way at any cost to others, nobles' convoluted affairs had killed her Ethyn. Bitterness had eaten at her for years before she'd regained balance. After a while, she'd managed to reweave a thread with her Family. With this feud, she'd once again have to choose Healing or walk away from her relatives.
A soft-squash container of blood was placed between her hands, on the young man's stomach. "His name's Eryngi Holly; will he live?" asked the other Healer, Myrrh.
Lips compressed, Lark nodded.
Myrrh hesitated. "There are some Hawthorn men here."
Lark fixed her attention on Healing the Holly guard.
"The Hawthorns have fewer injuries. I didn't see your brother or nephew, but your cuz Whitey is here," Myrrh said.
Lark stabilized the man's bloodflow and energy, and Healed the lower intestinal layers. "You can finish Healing his organs and skin. Who's next?"
"Tinne Holly has a blaser burn on his thigh. Holm Holly, his brother, asked for a FirstLevel Healer after Eryngi was seen. A Healer is administering pain relief."
Holm Holly's name plucked Lark from her brooding. "The Heir to the Hollys is here?"
"Yes, with his brother and a Healer in Nobleroom One."
"Of course."
Myrrh raised her brows at Lark's sarcasm. "You'll need to be more diplomatic if you want that appointment as head of Gael City HealingHall."
Lark grimaced. "You're right. Is anyone else injured worse than Holly? Perhaps I should see cuz Whitey." Even though he was her least favorite family member.
"Only this lad bore a life-threatening wound. The others are all being treated. Holm Holly said he'd wait for you." Myrrh slipped her hands under Lark's to take over the Healing, then frowned in deep concentration. Myrrh's complexion paled as she concentrated on channeling energy from the Universe to use it for complex, delicate Healing.
Lark turned and marched away, re-sterilized herself in the tube, straightened her lavender commoncloth pajamas, then proceeded to Nobleroom One.
As she faced the gold-inlaid door, she inhaled deeply and battled a sense of injustice. Primary HealingHall Noblerooms held all the best furnishings and equipment. Privacy and luxury for the privileged class. Nobleroom One was the best, reserved for FirstFamilies Lords and Ladies.
She shunted aside a contrasting vision of the barren wards of AllClass HealingHall, where she also worked. Noble or common, an injured person needed her Healing skill. This thought came easier now than it had when her husband had died.
As she entered the room, Holm Holly rose from a comfortchair, his expression serious. "How's my kinsman Eryngi?"
"He'll recover."
Holm's eyelids lowered. "Thank the Lord and Lady."
"Yes." She glanced at her patient, Tinne, on the healing bed. He winked at her. ThirdLevel Healer Gelse nodded.
Lark turned back to Holm. She studied him, telling herself she scrutinized him for hurt, nothing else. He looked immaculate, every silver-gilt hair in place, not a smudge on his bloused shirt and trous, not a tear in his elegantly woven cloak thrown over a chair. "You were in the fight, HollyHeir?"
His jaw muscles flexed. "An ambush."
He said nothing about her name or Family, and she appreciated his courtesy. She raised her chin. "You don't appear any worse for wear." There weren't even perspiration marks on his clothes, but then there wouldn't be; the cloth would carry a spell to erase those. With the thought, Lark became aware of his scent, musky and attractive.
"I don't look bedraggled because I'm the best at my skill," Holm said. He dipped his head. "As are you, Mayblossom."
She gritted her teeth. She hated her first name, but hadn't corrected him when they'd had their first real conversation since they'd been youngsters. That was two months ago, after a planning session for the charity ball to fund AllClass HealingHall. He'd escorted his mother, D'Holly.
The way he used Lark's given name reminded her that no matter how she denied her class, she had grown up his equal and he still considered her that, though she was the widow of a common man.
Crossing to the healing bed of layered permamoss covered in silkeen, Lark took Tinne Holly's hand. She nodded to Gelse and smoothly transferred pain relief duties.
"My heartfelt thanks, GraceMistrys Gelse," Holm said, flashing a charming smile.
Gelse looked as if she might melt. Then she shook her head as if to disperse bemusement and left.
Lark stared down at the handsome blond youth of twenty. "GreatSir Holly, it's been a while since I treated you."
"Three years ago, my second Passage, when I fought my death-duels in the slums of Downwind, when I helped T'Ash."
"When T'Ash saved your hide," Holm said.
Tinne grinned, and Lark couldn't suppress her own smile. She lifted the poultice off Tinne's thigh. His trous had been cut from the injury, but the ends of the fabric appeared melted. The burn was bad, a third-degree streak from his knee to the outside of his hip. From the amount of relief she'd been applying, she'd thought it a first-degree burn. He must have a high pain threshold. She wondered if it ran in the family and glanced at Holm, only to meet his intense scrutiny.
His gaze switched to Tinne. "You'll wear a scar from that one," Holm said.
"Really? That makes six," Tinne replied with relish.
Lark set her teeth at the sentiment, but built a layer of Healing energy between her hands and the burn. "So, what have you been doing, GreatSir, besides playing blaser-target?"
"Not my fault. Those fliggering Hawth—"
"Tinne," Holm warned.
"Ah." Tinne pinned his gaze on Lark and smiled winsomely again. She had the unmistakable Hawthorn coloring of blue-black hair and violet eyes. "Sorry, GreatMistrys Hawthorn."
"Call me Lark." Lark carefully repaired the muscle, intertwining lengths of sinew, siphoning more energy faster.
"Yes. I'm grateful for your skill. I don't feel a thing, and it's looking much better—" Tinne started to sit.
Even as Lark jerked her head at Holm, he pushed his brother back to the bedsponge.
"GreatSir Tinne, I'm sure your family has an estate and an occupation for you," Lark said, trying to distract his mind while she Healed his body.
"Yeah. Second sons always get the fighting and fencing salon, The Green Knight." He sounded pleased. "My G'Uncle Tab is teaching me, so I can become a Master and train youngbloods for the duel, street fighting—"
"Exercise and entertainment. Sport. Exhibition bouts," Holm continued easily.
Tinne's gray-blue gaze went to his brother. "Huh?"
Lark used a spurt of anger and disgust to Heal. The muscle glowed with health. The flow of the Universe through her picked up some of her own energy, tiring her. She concentrated harder at sloughing the dead skin away, bringing new skin to the top, transforming the cells to the proper shape and thickness for an outside layer. She quickened her pace, but didn't forfeit an atom of care. In a few seconds she was done. "Finished. Sending record to Primary HealingHall Library and T'Holly Residence."
"Immediate payment authorization of all Holly charges to the HealingHall," Holm commanded.
"Funds transferred," stated both the deep male tones of T'Holly Residence and the comforting feminine voice of Primary HealingHall.
Tinne sat up. With a pretty, rhyming verse, Lark placed a spell on the injury, keeping it clean, but letting the flow of air through to the wound. "The bandage spell will diminish over a week. Have your Healer examine the burn daily."
"Despite the fact that we are the Family that needs one the most, we have no household Healer. Perhaps you would be interested in the position?" Holm asked.
Shock forced Lark to look into Holm's gray eyes. She felt a tiny jolt. Small though it was, it was still a little stronger than the quiver she'd experienced the last time they'd met. The intervals between their meetings were decreasing, just as her reaction increased. She found speech. "Impossible."
"Huh?" Tinne said, no doubt as surprised as she that Holm would invite a Hawthorn into their employ. He glanced at his brother, then his lips curved. He stood and picked up her hand and kissed it. "My thanks—Lark." He glanced at his brother, hesitated, then said, "We would be pleased if you joined GreatHouse Holly. As you know, ours is a line of fighters, not Healers. We have no Family member who is capable of Healing. You would grace our halls."
Lark smiled at the charming compliment. "Quite impossible."
Tinne put a hand over his chest and sighed. "You have anything for heartbreak?"
Lark laughed and shooed him out. He left with a bounce in his step.
Holm took her hands before she could follow Tinne. A shudder rippled through Holm's body. For an instant Lark imagined fear dawned in his eyes, then the odd expression vanished and he smiled as he cradled her hands.
"Such power and Flair and beauty. T'Holly GreatHouse would honor and respect you, Mayblossom."
She stiffened. His palms were hard but gentle, his warmth and vitality astonishing. She tugged at her hands, but he didn't release them.
"HollyHeir..."
"You know it's Holm."
She tugged again.
He waited an instant, kissed one of her hands, then the other. The press of his mouth held an emphasis of tender determination and sent a sensual tingle throughout her body she took as a warning.
Slowly he released her fingers. "Merry meet," he said.
"And merry part," she replied automatically.
"And merry meet again." He shot her a brilliant look. "And we will meet again, Mayblossom. Soon."
Her mouth curved in a bitter smile. "I hope not. The feud, the injuries, death." A picture of her slain husband rose to her mind.
Holm's eyes narrowed. He grasped her shoulders and placed a short, hard kiss on her mouth. "We'll meet again."
"I don't associate with fighters," she called as he strode from the room, squelching the intimate memory of those firm lips on hers and the unexpected rush of desire. She buried the new sensations under old bitterness, hurt and anger. "I despise fighting." She yanked a cord for the Flair-technology spell to refresh and sterilize the room. Visualizing her bedroom, she gathered her Flair and teleported home.
Voices mumbled, swords swirled and dashed with discordant blows. Holm fought Hawthorns, spinning, using sword and dagger. The flash of a blade thrust at him. He hesitated. Tinne fell. Holm riposted and pierced the Hawthorn's heart.
Screams hit his ears. Words he couldn't distinguish. She drew his glance. Mayblossom Hawthorn, FirstLevel Healer. His HeartMate.
He woke on a shuddering groan. Dew coated long grass a centimeter from his nose. He'd curled defensively in his sleep— but only small night animals and birds rustled around him.
Not again! Sleep-teleporting again.
The fourth time in two months.
Holm staggered to his feet, his breathing a rasp. His arm ached all the way to his shoulder from his fierce grip on his dagger.
The night's chill breeze dried the cold sweat on his body. He shivered. He was naked. And alone.
The horizon was eye-level. He looked up, past the branches of a huge ash tree, and found the bright starry skies of Celta dimmed by the light of two waxing twinmoons. Once again he'd 'ported to the crater north of Druida that held the ancient Great Labyrinth—a meditation tool.
He didn't want to meditate or recall being trapped in a blood-colored dream of fighting and death. Or think of the ragged shroud of the previous nightmare where he'd failed his brother.
Tinne had sunk into the black sucking swamp of the Great Washington Boghole—a dream based on reality. Holm had floundered helplessly to save his younger brother, but it was Tinne who rescued them both.
Holm suppressed the groan echoing in his chest, just as he'd suppressed the memory and ignored the dreams since the incident nearly three years ago. He'd hoped he'd banished those forever. He didn't like thinking he'd failed, didn't live up to the standards of a HollyHeir, which was his duty and his identity.
His mouth flattened. No doubt his subconscious thought he needed to ponder some problems. He was at the center of the labyrinth, and it would take a septhour to reach the end where he could 'port out. A person could always teleport to the center, but never out from the center.
He loosened his grip on his dagger and switched hands so he could wipe his sweaty palm on his thigh, wondering what he'd do if this plague continued into the windy autumn and snowy winter. Would he have beaten whatever caused the dreams by then?
Stretching, he worked his muscles and steadied his pulse from the dream's divulgence of his HeartMate.
Holm wasn't surprised. He'd known the minute he'd touched her earlier in the day. The dreams had primed him, her touch that morning had triggered the revelation.
His thoughts unwillingly trailed back to the nightmare. His brother had died. He'd failed again. Holm rubbed his face.
The labyrinth's forcelines pulsed with rainbows of energy. He sighed and started the long walk out. Somehow he was sure that, as always, he'd fail to quiet his busy mind and find the core of serenity inside him that everyone said was there.
The next morning Holm was called into His father's ResidenceDen.
"Please, sit, son," T'Holly, Holm's father, rumbled and gestured to one of the large, comfortable wingchairs stationed in front of his desk.
Holm stared balefully at the chair. It represented all the reprimands of his childhood. When he became T'Holly and succeeded to the title and the estate, that chair would go.
When Holm saw his Mama perched on the side of his father's desk, her hand in her husband's, Holm tensed for an emotional blow.
There'd been no "little talks" for long years. He was a man grown with ample responsibilities as the Heir of a GreatHouse. He should not be subject to any further parent-child discussions. He fulfilled every duty.
Except one. There was one outstanding issue.
He grumbled inwardly. He'd known someday this moment would come, but, as usual, they'd surprised him. He'd just run out of time. And he needed time. He wasn't ready to start his wooing. She wasn't ready.
He respected his parents and had sworn a loyalty oath to T'Holly as GreatHouse Lord, but Holm's mind sharpened as he sat. He must play this game of wills smoothly.
His father cleared his throat. "Your mother and I have been talking..."
Holm's gut tensed. The worst news always began: "Your mother and I have been talking." Whether it had been problems with manners, duties, his tutor, his psi power—his Flair—he'd always sat in this chair and heard those words. Though his father said the words, Holm knew who prompted the little talks. He stared at his Mama. She didn't meet his eyes.
His teeth clenched in dread.
His parents exchanged glances, then his father turned his pewter-gray gaze again onto Holm. "You're thirty-seven, and while that isn't the great age here on Celta as it was on Earth, it is time you married."
Holm would have given a great deal of gilt for a stiff drink right then. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to keep his face impassive. "None of my three Passages, the emotional storms that freed my Flair, indicated a HeartMate. I want what you have." Maybe that would earn him a little more time.
His Mama's turquoise eyes held sorrow. She moved closer to his father. "We know you don't have a HeartMate, dear."
Staying expressionless and meeting her eyes was hard. But the stakes were too important for anyone except himself to know the name of his HeartMate. He hadn't had time to strategize how he'd win Mayblossom Larkspur Hawthorn Collinson.
D'Holly sighed. "Many don't have HeartMates." She nodded with determination. "But it's time you wed. A fine marriage can be had with a good woman. Love can follow, I'm sure." Her voice faltered at the end, since being a HeartMate, she couldn't know personally. She swept her hand wide as if encompassing the city. "The Alders have a perfectly happy marriage, and my sister Nata loves her husband...."
T'Holly continued for his HeartMate. "We need to know the Holly line will continue. We need heirs. At least two sons from you." His father was less than his usual diplomatic self. The fact that T'Holly found the topic distasteful didn't stop Holm from resenting him.
"A few daughters would be nice, too," D'Holly murmured, flashing the charming smile Holm had inherited. "As many as you can engender."
A growl rolled from Holm's lips before he could stop it.
His father raised winged silver brows and looked down his nose. "We expected this reaction."
He tapped a crystal set into the desk. A calendar-moon holo materialized between Holm and his parents.
The ResidenceLibrary spoke. "An appointment with the matchmaker, GreatLady Saille D'Willow, has been made for Holm, HollyHeir. The meeting was expedited for two days from now, on Quert. It is to be a full session, no gilt limit."
Holm winced at the expense. The globe spun faster until it disappeared in a flash of blue-white light.
"We want you to be happy, dear, that's why we're sending you to the foremost matchmaker on Celta. D'Willow won't have any difficulty finding you a suitable wife." His mother sounded troubled but determined.
...
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